


Doubt

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fear, Gen, Handcuffs, Punishment, The Hounds of Baskerville, dark!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’ve written two fics for alike prompts – <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=79399301#t79399301">this one</a> and <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=79441541#t79441541">that one</a>. They deal with the same theme, but this fic is PG-13 (though a bit dark) and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/343258">the other</a> is NC-17 (because it’s <i>very</i> smutty). Choose what you like best.</p><p>It’s the aftermath of “The Hounds of Baskerville”. John is really mad at Sherlock after the experiment in the lab.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to selana1505 for beta-ing!

“Stop here,” John orders.

“We’ll be late for the train.”

“I said _stop here_ ,” John snarls, and the car is brought to a halt.

John always wonders why this cold commanding tone makes Sherlock obey, despite his stubbornness. Maybe an element of surprise is to blame. A sort of shock that makes him respond without thinking. You don’t expect your compliant, meek companion being that bossy, right, Sherlock? Well, I do have bad days, I warned you not just once, John smirks to himself grimly.

“Come to think of that, it’s better to park the car among those bushes, so that no one will see it from the road,” he adds.

As they step from the well-hidden car, he can see the anxiety welling up on Sherlock’s face. “Is something wrong?”

Yes, something’s definitely wrong, John sighs to himself. You are. You locked me up in that bloody lab, scared me to death – and after I’ve found you out, you’re like, “Oh, that was just an experiment, nothing’s happened to you after all.” It’s not even a proper apology. Do you honestly think I’ll swallow that and won’t hold the grudge?!

“We’re going back to Dewer’s Hollow,” he says, trying to stay calm. He would have gladly punched Sherlock in the face, not sparing his nose this time. But that won’t work on Sherlock. He’s relatively immune to minor injuries, seeing his body as “transport”. It’s not a punishment for him. That’s why John has something else in mind.

A narrow grassy path leads them away from the road. John doesn’t bother to explain anything yet, and Sherlock follows him in silence, which is not very typical. Perhaps he feels uneasy about what he has done. Just a teensy bit. He looked very edgy when making awkward attempts to distract John from finding out about his experiment with supposedly drugged sugar. Maybe it wasn’t guilt on his part, but he obviously understood that John would be enraged – and tried his best to avoid the topic. Didn’t succeed, though. Now it’s time to pay off.

They stop at the top of the slope above the hollow. Down there, it’s the usual foggy twilight, though the sunset is yet to come. The dark mossy cliffs, with ferns and brambles growing in their niches, are bleak and unwelcoming.

“For how long have I been locked in that laboratory?” John asks all of a sudden and turns around. “Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen? I think you owe me this time I’ve spent in terror.”

Sherlock frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t seem to get an apology from you, but I don’t really need one. I want something equal in return. Your time for my time. Your fear for my fear. You’ll stay here, in the hollow, for fifteen minutes. Otherwise – I don’t think you should call me your friend anymore. You didn’t act like one. I’m not going to pretend it’s fine.”

John is not as good as Sherlock in reading people. But he’s a doctor. He’s able to see Sherlock’s nervousness and uncertainty. Eyes narrowed. Pupils dilated. Jaw clenched. He’s had a very unpleasant experience here, God knows what he might see this time.

“John…”

“It’s not a matter for negotiation. It’s either you agree and we’re done with it, or you don’t – and then the number of your friends will be automatically reduced to zero. If you’re okay with it, if you don’t care, just leave and…”

“Alright,” Sherlock interrupts him. “Alright. I’ll go down there. No problem. As you wish. And let’s double the time.”

“Half an hour, then?”

“Yes. Is it reasonable compensation?”

“I guess so. Will you please stand there?” John points at an alder tree as they go down the slope.

“What for?”

John produces a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. “I don’t think you’ll break your promise on purpose, Sherlock. But as you’ve said, your body can betray you. There’s a good chance that soon you’ll be so scared that you’ll run away despite your own will, in confusion. But we’ll prevent it, shall we? Now, hands behind your back. Hold them around the trunk.”

John slips one cuff onto Sherlock’s right wrist, backed up to the tree, then secures his left wrist to the other cuff. No chance for him to escape. Now John can relax a bit. He didn’t expect it would be so easy to talk Sherlock into this. He thought that maybe he would need some force.

John pulls Sherlock’s scarf off his neck and ties it around his head as a blindfold. “That’s better. Equal to my experience. I’ve been sitting in a cage behind a curtain, blinded by the alarm lights, unable to see anything clearly. You’re sight should be impaired too.”

He steps back to look at restrained Sherlock, grey fog curling at his feet. Quite satisfactory. Now he’d better leave.

“I’ll be back in half an hour, with the key,” he says.

Sherlock can’t see him as he starts up the slope but he’s surely listening to the sound of his footsteps fading away, replaced by the uncanny rustling of the wind among the bushes.

After a quick march back to the car in order to take some things, John returns to the hollow but doesn’t go down there. He doesn’t want to be exposed to the gas. He finds a good observing spot on a rock above the hollow instead, spreads a blanket on the stone and settles down with binoculars to watch Sherlock. He’s got a bottle of beer and crisps too. A nice spooky place for a picnic.

Unlike John, Sherlock has a perfect sense of time. He’s still and almost relaxed during the stipulated half an hour, or at least he tries not to give in to panic. He knows that John is somewhere nearby, that he’s safe – and all the scary things that must be invading his mind right now are not real. Sometimes he starts writhing and jerking but then forces himself to calm down. John can see the expressions change on his face, splashes of fear conquered by sheer will, serenity broken by terror, composure regained, lost and achieved once again. It’s almost exactly half an hour since John’s gone (plus/minus a few seconds) when Sherlock calls out, “John, are you here?” But he gets no answer, of course.

Sound carries strangely in the forest. There’s little chance that someone will hear Sherlock, but still John feels uneasy listening to his own name being shouted again and again. At first, Sherlock is calling John in his normal voice, just a little bit louder. Then he’s crying out at the top of his lungs. John wishes he had headphones and some loud music to muffle this noise.

When Sherlock’s voice finally breaks into a stifled hoarse sob, he calms down for a while. He’s standing there waiting. Waiting. Waiting. It’s only after another quarter of an hour that he starts testing the security of his handcuffs, pulling at them frantically. It does him no good. They _are_ secure. They are meant to be.

Theoretically, it’s possible to escape. By dislocating a thumb, for example. Sherlock has narrow palms, he can slip out. But even if Sherlock remembers this trick in his current dazed state of mind, it’s not an easy maneuver to perform, with his hands behind the trunk. He’s flexible, yes – but not Houdini after all.

John is observing Sherlock’s face through binoculars. Sherlock must be on the verge of uncontrollable panic, his lower lip is visibly trembling.

No one knows where he is. In the inn, they’ll be thinking he’s gone to London, along with John. The car’s rented for the whole week, no one will be looking for it in the next few days. Sherlock hasn’t informed Mrs Hudson they’re coming back, she won’t be worried about his absence either. He’s completely at John’s mercy. And he should have realized by now that John’s mercy has considerably diminished after that cruel experiment in the lab.

He’s not calling John anymore. Is he wondering when John comes back? Or is he already asking himself _if_ John’s going to come back at all?

It’s getting darker and darker, the light of the sinking sun is slowly vanishing, replaced by chilly gloom. John glances at his watch. There are no long-lasting effects from the drug, Sherlock says, but who knows. It’s probably time to release him. Besides, John has no intention to spend the whole night here, and he can’t leave Sherlock alone. John wants him punished, broken, frightened but not gone insane or seriously injured.

Still… it’s hard not to yield to temptation and let Sherlock squirm in horror some more time. Another half an hour, shall we say?

The minutes tick by. Sherlock is busy doing something strange. John would have expected him to apply strength in vain attempts to cause the device to split open. But maybe Sherlock’s too well acquainted with police handcuffs due to some misunderstandings that surely must have occurred during his show-offs at crime scenes. He probably knows that all these efforts will only lead to injuries, including torn muscles. No, he’s doing something else. He’s wriggling against the tree, sliding up and down, rubbing his back against it. He’s doing it methodically, not stopping even for a second, but the only result of all this fidgeting is that his coat slides down his shoulders, almost to his elbows. John frowns. What is he up to?

Sherlock’s slowly crouching lower and lower, until he’s sitting on the ground, legs drawn up to his chest, his coat lying around him in heavy folds. Than he starts moving around the trunk, with his coat trailing beside him in the mud, which looks even more weird. John stands up, uncertain if he should go down to the hollow right now and drag Sherlock out of there… when Sherlock’s long fingers finally get to the pocket of his coat.

Damn. Sneaky bastard. He’s not gone mad. He was reaching for his phone.

Now, just one call to Mycroft, the familiar number easily dialed even without looking – and all the British military forces will come to rescue. Great. Just marvelous.

For a moment, panic streams through John’s mind. There’s no time to stop Sherlock from making this call. And Mycroft will be _very_ displeased, if mildly put, to find out that his little brother has been manacled to a tree. No matter what Sherlock has done to John previously…

Then, all of a sudden, John’s own phone starts quietly buzzing.

Oh, Sherlock, you idiot. So stupid to call the one who’s left you like this – of all people! – so that he can come back and take your mobile. And you won’t be able to call anyone else then. Feeling the soft hum of the phone vibrating in his jacket, John goes down the slope. Unhurriedly.

When he comes closer, he finds Sherlock trying to type blind, one-handed. The sound of footsteps catches Sherlock by surprise, and John simply picks the phone out of his hand. Sherlock jerks violently at the touch, whispers hoarsely, “Who’s that?”

John looks at the message, not sent yet, and blinks in puzzlement. “johnmissing track hisphone urgent last seen dewershollow.” Not a word that he’s handcuffed and drugged. Not a word where _he_ is. An idiot indeed.

Sherlock tries to stand up, and fails. “Who’s there?” His strained voice is merely a croak. Now he’s pulling at the handcuffs madly, struggling to break the chain in despair, without thinking that it’s useless. “What have you done to him? Where’s he?”

“Sherlock…”

“Where’s John?”

“Sherlock, calm down, it’s me,” John takes the scarf off, but Sherlock glares at him in repulsion like he’s seeing someone else. It’s not that easy to unlock the handcuffs while Sherlock’s tugging at them. Drawing him up the slope is even more difficult. Sherlock is twisting out and kicking. John misses a few punches. Fortunately, Sherlock’s a bit disorientated.

The slope is endless. The wreaths of fog are crawling after them, clutching at their feet. Finally, John manages to drag Sherlock up to the rock where he’s been sitting all this time, well above the poisonous mist, and pin him down to the ground.

“Breath, just breath. It’s me, Sherlock, everything’s fine.”

He keeps talking till Sherlock murmurs hesitantly, “John?”

John lets him out. Sherlock is a disheveled mess, his shirt torn, the coat covered with mud. There are ugly bruises around Sherlock’s wrists, and his back is probably grazed.

“John… Are you alright?”

“Why, sure. And you…”

Sherlock awkwardly grabs his shoulders and pulls him so close that it hurts, more than the previous punches. “I must have been delusional about the time,” he mutters. “I thought more than half an hour had passed, much more. I thought something must have happened… I called you, you didn’t pick up the phone…”

“Sherlock, why were you texting Mycroft, or Lestrade, whomever? Why not call them, too?”

“Who could have heard me, with my voice like that.”

John wonders at his logic, “Why did you call _me_ then?”

“I would have heard _you_ , I just needed to know you were… not kidnapped again or… Jim wasn’t there, right?” His voice breaks completely. He’s practically shaking in John’s arms.

It seems he could have had doubts about his own sanity, or his sense of time – but none about John. He never really thought John would leave him, unless something went wrong.

John sighs in frustration. How does it always happen that he’s the one feeling guilty in the end?

**Author's Note:**

> My [Tumblr](https://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com).


End file.
